


o fortuna, velut luna

by xerampelinae



Category: Fifth Element (1997), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerampelinae/pseuds/xerampelinae
Summary: Shiro’s cruising along in the aerial traffic when something slams into the cab like a surgical strike--someone yelps and Shiro grunts, rocking in his harness--then he’s struggling to regain control as the cab veers into another fast-moving lane.-The Fifth Element AU





	o fortuna, velut luna

“What is it?” Colonel Iverson asks, watching the containment field circle a single gauntlet of alien armor with mechanical grips. Light progresses along the length of the field--more a tube than anything else, sealed but laid open to viewing by the transparency of the field’s walls--forward and back again. The computer screens explode with data, compiling and extrapolating.

“It’s a survivor, Colonel,” Sam Holt says.

“It looks an awful lot like a severed hand, Holt,” Iverson says, squinting at the field. Protruding from gauntlet are what look to be a radius and ulna, particularly charred where they terminate prematurely.

“A handful of cells are all we need,” Sam says serenely.

“Do you even know whose cells those are?” Iverson grits out.

“Well, no,” Sam says. “But I’m looking forward to meeting them!”

Iverson locks his ID into the authentication slot and lets his hand hover the red button that will purge all single and multicellular lifeforms from the containment field. “And I’ll be ready to deal with them, in case they’re unfriendly.”

“They’re perfect, Colonel,” Sam says. “Engineered to be the perfect being.”

“Perfect or not,” Iverson growls, “unfriendly behavior is my business.”

Sam frowns, but then the field’s grips begin to spin, faster and faster, around the gauntlet. The grips stop. The computers indicate a bipedal skeleton. The grips begin to move once more, constructing a skeleton in the open span of the field. Tall, but lean. Then the grips begin to build muscle and connective tissue. Slim hips. Trim thighs.

“What’s that?” Iverson, jolting as a dark screen rolls out to cover the field.

“Merely a solar ray,” Sam says, “to bombard the new flesh and make it resistant to injury as the rest of us are.”

Iverson closes his fist around his ID, frowning. Then the field chimes once; the shielding and grips withdraw, revealing an empty span of field until it’s not empty any more. A tall, slender man lies supine and naked across the base of the field. He’s beautiful. Long, silky hair falls into a dark halo around his head, lashes long and face smooth of worry. If Helen of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships, this is a face that could launch the fleets of a thousand planets.

“Perfect,” Sam says, and his hand gently guides Iverson’s hand away from the control panel. “That doesn’t seem necessary, no?”

Iverson nods, spellbound.

“Can I--” Iverson croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. “Do you mind if I take pictures? For the archives, of course.”

“Of course,” Sam echoes. The field extends a camera, which takes several flash photos. The man continues to lie still except for rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. “Initiate thermal bandaging.”

The field extends long lines of bandaging; not enough to fully conceal the slender body, but enough to be closer to modesty. The field emits a burst of heat to seal off the bandage ends into a single strappy garment, and finally the man comes alert, gasping with shock as his body arches. He scrambles up into a crouch, hands instinctively shaping the boundaries of the containment field around him and chattering in an unknown tongue.

Despite himself, Iverson chuckles. There’s something delightful and amusing about the man’s confusion. Schadenfreude, maybe. Or the semblance of a vintage pin-up’s coy confusion.

The man catches sight of them and starts babbling fluidly.

“What’s he saying?” Iverson says, staring raptly.

“Unknown,” Sam says, when none of the Federation-recognized languages produces a hit. Considering the size of the Federation and the thoroughness of its universal translator, this is somewhat impressive. 

“How sturdy is this thing?” Iverson says, gesturing at the field.

“Impenetrable,” Sam says.

“Great. Hey,” Iverson says roughly, knocking on the field’s glass surface. The man freezes, staring intently at Iverson. “You’re going to have to learn some communication skills, if you want to get out of here.”

For a moment, Iverson enjoys the advantage of having the high ground. Then the man narrows his eyes and punches through the containment field in a single, clean movement. Before Iverson can react, the man grasps the end of his tie and yanks it hard enough to slam him into the hard surface of the field. As Iverson groans and slips to the floor, the man turns the ID to unlock the containment field. Alarms begin to wail, summoning armed MPs; the man slips backward off of the containment field, watching as the MPs stomp their way into the room and send the underling scientists skittering back.

“Put your hands up and come out slowly,” an MP orders.

The man turns and runs through the foil wall of the room, even as the MPs shout.

“Perfect,” Sam says, enraptured. “Absolutely perfect.”

-

Shiro’s having a rough morning. It’s been a long series of rough mornings since his ex ran off with his lawyer saying that Shiro was more interested in his job than his partner. Which was ironic because Shiro has since left the military and both his ex and ex-lawyer remain attached to the military. Shiro still hasn’t figured that one out yet, but at least the coffee is hot and bitter enough to wake the dead.

The phone rings. Shiro doesn’t sigh but instead takes a swallow of coffee, savors it, and finally answers the phone. “Chip,” he says.

“Major,” Matt Holt says. 

There’s a noise at the pet flap; Shiro moves over to it and taps the button that opens the flap long enough to let in a white shorthair cat. “Hi, sweetie,” Shiro says fondly, watching the cat twine around his legs.

“I missed you too, Major,” Matt says, tone light.

“I was talking to the cat,” Shiro says. Tuna appears for her.

“You still have that old thing?” Matt says. “I thought that went with the ex?”

“She’s faithful, at least,” Shiro says, tipping over a photo frame; Shiro’s still visible in mess dress, while Adam’s face has thoughtfully been replaced with a cut-out of the cat’s own face. Matt’s not much of an artist but it was an inspired choice. “Comes back when she leaves. More than can be said of a lot of people, Chip.”

“That’s true,” Matt says, chuckling. “Hey, when are you going to come out to my workshop for a total overhaul?”

“That’s not necessary,” Shiro says, though probably it is. “I have fifty points left on my license.”

Matt outright scoffs. “Come on, Major. I sat how many missions with you in the cockpit? You’re a hell of a fighter pilot, but not much for the laws of man.”

Shiro doesn’t have much of anything to say to that, especially once he’s seen the time. “Listen, Chip, I gotta head out.”

“Come see me today,” Matt insists. Then the call disconnects and Shiro is left alone once more in a sparse capsule of an apartment, alone except for the cat.

“Don’t go too wild, sweetie,” Shiro says, crossing into the carbay and climbing into his taxi. “Too much TV will rot your brain.”

The cat only licks her paw.

“You have--” the taxi AI says, and Shiro speaks with it, timed perfectly to both intonation and beat, “--_five_\--points left on your driver’s license.”

“Yeah,” Shiro sighs, then directs the taxi into traffic with a quick, sharp dive, horns blaring all around him.

-

The man crawls easily on hands and knees through the air ducts until he reaches a screen, kicking it out, and has the space to stand. Dirt darkens his hands and knees and the bottoms of his feet, smudging here and there along his body.

Another screen flies away under his attention, this time revealing bright light: the outside world.

“Halt!” a cop shouts. “Put your hands in the air and step away from the window.”

The man looks distastefully over his shoulder and, cat-like, deliberately steps through the window and out the ledge.

“God, they never listen,” the cop groans, and grabs his radio. “Control, I’m going to need an air unit.”

-

Shiro’s cruising along in the aerial traffic when something slams into the cab like a surgical strike--someone yelps and Shiro grunts, rocking in his harness--then he’s struggling to regain control as the cab veers into another fast-moving lane.

It’s not his most desperate maneuver ever, but maybe for Shiro’s taxi it is. But he manages it, straightening out mostly and sliding out of the lane and leaning on the horn, even as the taxi AI solemnly intones, “You have just been in an accident--”

“Yes, I know,” Shiro grinds out, braking heavily, slapping the hover brake on as the taxi halts.

“You have--_one_\--point left on your driver’s license--”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, sighs. “Should have listened to Chip and taken the day off.”

There’s a certain ache that radiates up Shiro’s neck from his trapezius when he reaches a critical amount of unproductive stress. He likes to pretend it’s a bilateral discomfort and not another side effect of the prosthetic; most of its details remain classified, even now. There’s nothing productive in pushing, Shiro knows, at least not now. So he sighs again and unhooks himself from his harness, reaching back and pressing his fingertips just below the C7 vertebrae to ease the hot edge of pain. Then he turns, peering at the wreckage that is the back seat.

“Any survivors?” Shiro asks.

A hand rises and braces palm-first against the plateglass between them. The rest of the person follows: ink-dark hair, skin paler and cooler-toned than Shiro’s, and dirt smudged across an insubstantial white garment and everything it doesn’t cover. Dark eyes staring wide and wary that Shiro wants to stare romantically into for an extended period of time.

“Hey,” Shiro says more softly, lips turning up in an involuntary smile.

It’s all the strange man needs, chattering in an unfamiliar tongue and hands moving in secondary emphasis.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, nodding when context and words intersect into something he can parse. “Bada boom. Big bada boom.”

“Bada big,” the beautiful man says, lighting up. “Bada big bada boom.”

They might have gone like that for a good while, but that’s when the police show up. Shiro should have complied with them--had been complying--but then the stranger had shaped _help_ and _please,_ effortful and desperate.

Shiro’s grandpa had always said to look to the helpers. Sometimes that meant that Shiro himself became a helper, and sometimes he did some very reckless things.

When he speeds away from the cops, towing them until the cable finally snaps, the AI speaks up, “You have--_one_\--point left on your driver’s license--”

Wordlessly Shiro unplugs the AI before it can go any further. In the rearview mirror, another cop car joins the pursuit, sirens screaming.

-

Sometimes, Shiro thinks, being a helper means that he stands in front of strangers’ doors holding a beautiful man like a bridegroom.

“I’m looking for a priest,” Shiro says.

The priest’s already-grave expression sours. “Weddings are down the hall,” he intones, and shuts the door.

“Wait, wait--” Shiro says, kicking the door open again so he can decisively stride in and shuffle the man in his arms until he can grab his wrist. “All I know is he’s got this tattoo, he put a hole in the roof of my cab, and he asked for a priest named Vito Kolivanus--”

“Oh,” the priest says, staring all the way down at the tattoo. “I am called Kolivan, and this--by the Blade of Marmora, this is the Fifth Element--”

Shiro squints at them--the unconscious man still in his arms, who has a knife tattooed on the inside of his wrist, and this awestruck priest who has the same knife emblem pressed into his belt buckle, symbology and placement-wise an interesting choice--and for a long moment wishes to be back in the special forces, which would at least contextualize what’s going on. Maybe. Depended on the mission and lead to be honest. Sometimes Matt liked to cry into his post-mission beer about how Shiro flew by the seat of his pants and no one would believe him if he lived long enough for their missions to become declassified.

“Alright?” Shiro says. 

Kolivan’s jaw works. “Well,” he tries. “This is--”

“Why don’t you have a seat,” Shiro says gently, since _Don’t faint_ is generally unhelpful. Kolivan sinks heavily into a nearby chair. 

“This is truly unprecedented,” Kolivan says, blanched and solemn. Shiro sets the man down on the couch, watchful in case Kolivan starts to go down. Not like he can pick up passengers as is. Too much natural air conditioning and cosmetic bullet holes, after all. “I thought--that all had been lost.”

Suddenly, Kolivan’s head snaps toward Shiro. “You need to wake him up,” he says. “But--gently.”

“You sure?” Shiro says.

“Yes,” Kolivan says firmly, and disappears out of the room in a flurry of robes.

Kolivan’s emphasis must have hit some switch in Shiro’s brain, because his first impulse is _Wake him up with a kiss._ Instead, Shiro physically shakes his head to try and dislodge the thought and instead falls into a crouch beside the couch, prosthetic settling on the man’s bare shoulder and gently shaking it.

“Hey--” Shiro says, and then he’s stumbling back on his heels and he’s looking down the barrel of his own gun. “Hi.”

Furiously, the man chatters rapidly--maybe too rapidly for Shiro to have followed, even if he knew whatever tongue it was--grip steady and aim sure.

“Look,” Shiro says. “We got off to a bad start. My name is Shirogane Takashi--Shiro. What’s your name?”

“Keïthminaï Kekatariba Kamina-Tchaï Ekbat De Sebat,” the beautiful man says.

“Keith?” Shiro says carefully, just to make sure. The man nods. “Keith it is.”

“Have you--” Kolivan says, bursting back into the room with Thace, a slightly-younger priest. “Oh. Greetings, holy one.”

Keith relaxes, just enough for Shiro to slip the gun out of his hand.

“Right,” Kolivan says, and turns to Shiro with singleminded focus to bustle him out the door.. “Thank you for your help, we will take it from here. That is all.”

“Say,” Shiro says, “what does ‘ecto gammet’ mean?”

“Hm,” Kolivan says, standing with his hand on the door. “‘Never without my permission.’”

Keith is watching them now--less fired-up now that he’s awake and alert and knows that he’s not lost in space. Shiro waves goodbye to him; amusedly, Keith waves back.

“Thought so,” Shiro says, and then the door is shut.

-

Shiro’s phone is ringing by the time he makes it back to his apartment, somewhat dejected by the turn his day’s gone.

“Hey, Major, where’ve you been? Going to keep me waiting at the garage all day?” Matt asks, sharpish, before Shiro can say anything.

“Chip,” he says, sighs. “I’m sorry. I was on my way to see you when a big fare fell into my lap--the kind you just can’t say no to.”

Immediately the atmosphere lightens and Matt chuckles. “Yeah? This fare got a description?”

Shiro relaxes back into the galley cupboards, grin spreading across his face. “Five-eleven,” he says, helplessly and unconsciously fond, “long, dark hair. Lean. Legs that go on for days.”

-

After, the day only goes downhill. The slip announcing Shiro’s firing arrives an hour before the radio broadcasts Zarkco’s layoff of one million subsidiary employees. Shiro simply sighs and goes back to his noodles.

-

“So where are the stones?” Kolivan says, cocking his head. He and Thace lean closer curiously.

Keith’s hands abandon his second whole roasted chicken to gesture counterpoint as his mouth shapes a rhythmic and alien language. It flows the way flame laps at a building, drifting when caught at by a draft but climbing ever-hungrily forward.

“What’s he saying?” Thace says.

“He and the stones travelled separately for security. The stones--the stones are with a trusted person, and they are meeting--” Kolivan pauses. Keith’s hands move through the holoscreen, searching until finally he stops at a planetary body, enlarging it for their inspection. “--_There._ Phloxton Paradise.”

“How are we going to get there?” Thace muses aloud.

Keith goes back to his chicken.

-

"Hello, Major," Iverson says with his usual gruff cheer. Shiro peers at him and his two person escort, all of them crisply uniformed in gray and orange. "May we come in?"

Wordlessly, Shiro steps back. 

“I understand you’ve just received some good news,” Iverson says.

Shiro looks dubiously back at him. “I’ve just been fired,” he says.

“Ah,” Iverson says awkwardly. “I’m sorry to hear that, Major. In the meantime--”

The maildrop chimes insistently as a new missive arrives.

“--That must be it,” Iverson says, and opens the message.

“Congratulations on winning Gemini Croquette’s contest for two tickets to Phloxton Paradise!” it chirps.

“You rigged it,” Shiro says.

Iverson inclines his head. “Oldest play in the book. We have a mission for you, Major.”

“I retired six months ago,” Shiro says.

“It’s to save the world. You,” Iverson says, “are _the_ most qualified person for this mission. You want to know why, Major? Three reasons.”

Shiro tips his head encouragingly.

“First, as a member of the Armed Forces you completed hundreds of missions with distinction. Second, of your squadron, you are the most qualified.” Lieutenant Rizavi passes over a letter; as Iverson takes it, he snaps it open to reveal a list of materials and weapons handling qualifications long enough to spill across the floor. “Third, you are the only member of your squadron still alive.”

“What’s the mission?” Shiro says finally.

“You and Lieutenant Leifsdottir will travel to Phloxton and rendezvous with the Diva there,” Iverson says. Leifsdottir takes a sharp step forward, salutes, and steps back into step with Rizavi.

“General,” Shiro says, tone a quiet warning.

“What?” Iverson says, looking Leifsdottir over as if for fault and finding none.

“I’m gay, sir,” Shiro says.

“Ah,” Iverson says, apparently remembering once more Shiro’s marriage and the handful of dates that had preceded that relationship. Then the doorbell rings. “Who could that be--”

As one, they all turn to look at the door monitor. Shiro hurries forward impatiently past Iverson and his aides--one visit is unusual, but a second is beyond unlikely--and chokes, turning desperately to block out the monitor with his body.

“Who is it, Major?” Iverson asks, frowning.

“My spouse,” Shiro says desperately, automatically.

“You’re married?” Iverson says. His tone rises incredulously, and Shiro scrambles to cover.

“No--” he says, sweeping forward and herding Iverson and his aides deeper into the studio apartment, searching for cover. “I mean, we’re not married, not yet, but we’re going to be. But he knows that the military destroyed my last marriage and he hates that. He can’t see you here--”

“Major--” Iverson says.

“--You need to hide--” Shiro says, frantic.

“Major!” Iverson snaps.

“What?” Shiro snaps back, finally turning back to Iverson.

“We’d love to help,” Iverson says, aides nodding sharply behind him, “but there’s nowhere to hide.”

Shiro turns back to his apartment with new eyes. “Sure there is,” he says. The fridge opens easily, shelving falling cleanly to the bottom under the force of his hand. Then he reaches back and summarily shoves Rizavi, Leifsdottir, and Iverson in.

“Major--” Iverson snaps, struggling to not crush up against his aides. “We’re not going to fit--”

“Sure you will,” Shiro says, and forces the door shut. A tap of a control sends the fridge into storage, revealing the shower. Finally, Shiro turns back to the door. With a wordless prayer that he’s not too out of breath, Shiro finally answers the door. “Hi.”

Keith beams up at him. “Hi!” he says, waving a little.

“You can speak English now,” Shiro says, marvelling.

“Yes,” Keith says. “I learn.”

“Shiro--” Kolivan says, popping into view, holding the pistol that Keith had taken off of Shiro, “--I’m sorry to do this, but I must, for the greater good--”

Keith looks between them both, something akin to outrage spreading across his face. He begins to speak again, that lovely, unfamiliar tongue that he used when they first met.

“Why don’t we move this inside?” Shiro suggests. “Coffee?”

-

Things are going a value of well when the building alarms begin to sound and cycle yellow light. “This is a police exercise,” a cyclic and mechanical voice says through the intercoms. “this is not a drill. Please prepare yourself in a calm and orderly manner.”

Apartments like this only allot for one, or very rarely, two occupants. This makes Keith and Kolivan something of a problem.

“Here,” Shiro says, sliding open the drawer that is his bed and shoving Kolivan down into it. “Stay there and keep quiet--just for a little bit--”

Before Kolivan can do more than sputter, Shiro’s hit the switch that hides away his bed and Kolivan’s yelping and curling, shrimp-like, to fit onto a bed that Shiro just barely fits into.

“Shiro?” Keith says, drifting through the apartment several steps away as Shiro searches for just one more hiding spot. He hits the button to cycle appliances and the fridge disappears in favor of the shower.

“Here, Keith,” Shiro says, and guides him into the shower cubicle. “Just for a little while.”

“Shiro--” Keith says, and then the cubicle is rising up and away once more, out of sight but not out of mind. Finally, Shiro retreats to the designated Pat Down Spot, hands pressed to yellow circles that give surveilling cops some peace of mind that a knife or gun isn’t going to be jumping out at them from within the 21 foot killzone.

Finally, the intercom crackles again, this time with the sounds of a live mic. “Are you classified as a human?” the cop says.

“Ah, negative,” Shiro says, because honestly? Why not. “I’m a mass-produced clone.”

Before any further questions can come, some sucker snarks back and the cops circle back. The sucker ends up in a body bag and the alert ends. Shiro relaxes, hearing an odd, distant sound and puzzling absently over it. Then the appliances begin to cycle and the sound and its source become more clear: shivering, and Keith huddling sodden in the corner of the shower.

“Oh no,” Shiro says, guiding Keith out of the shower and trying to warm him with his hands. Keith’s skin is chilled, cropped shirt near-transparent. _Wet,_ part of Shiro thinks, _Superior loss of bodily heat_ and he fumbles a towel out of the cupboard, carefully drying Keith’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, honey, I forgot about the autowash.”

“Auto--” Keith shivers, “Autowash?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, smiling absently but fondly. “Autowash.”

Keith’s eyes, he thinks, are remarkably open, looking up at him without guile. It’s been a while since Shiro’s been so close to someone in a way that might look like vulnerability.

“Do you hear that?” Shiro says absently, hands beginning to slow around Keith’s shoulders.

“Kolivan,” Keith says, still shivering.

“Oh, shit,” Shiro says. 

-

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shirogane,” Kolivan mumbles. Shiro’s back is turned as he tries to sort out the coffee machine; Kolivan seizes an appropriately weighty medal from the incongruous gathering along the countertop. “It truly is for the greater good.”

Then Kolivan brings the medal down hard on the back of Shiro’s head. Shiro sputters and goes down hard; Kolivan seizes the cruise tickets and flees, Keith berating him endlessly in the language of the Ancients.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Kolivan says, “but it’s for the greater good--”

Within his apartment, Shiro climbs back to his feet with a groan, setting the medal of honor back into place. The stumble is mostly gone from his step by the time he reaches the appliances and is yanking the fridge door open, staring at Iverson and his aides where they’re stiff and still as ice. 

Yanking the missive out of Iverson’s hand, Shiro says, “I accept the mission. Sir.”

-

There’s a mess with Thace having the tickets and an ID badge that has his picture and _Shirogane, Takashi_ written on it, but Shiro’s expressions are enough to drive him back, leaving Shiro standing shoulder to shoulder with Keith, who’s wearing a benevolent sort of grin.

“Keith Shirogane,” he says. “Multi-pass.”

“Of course, Mr. Shirogane,” the kiosk attendant says smoothly. It seems very likely that it’s not the first time she’s had to say this. Shiro begins to worry that _this,_ over Thace’s illicit and nervous attempt to take his place is throwing them into suspicion. Or their cover story as newlyweds.

“Mulllltipass,” Keith says again, emphatically.

“Yes, honey,” Shiro says with rising tone to cover Keith’s repeated vocalizations, “she knows it’s a multipass! Anyways, we’re in love.”

-

“Oh, god,” Kolivan says from the airport bar when Thace stumbles forward and steals his drink. “How did--?”

“It’s not my fault,” Thace says, plaintive as he wipes the fear sweat from his face. “Mr. Shirogane appeared and he’s just--I thought he was going to kill me.”

“I must go, then,” Kolivan says, standing suddenly, “and you must go to the temple, and open it.”

Without another word, Kolivan disappears in a flurry of robe and braid.

“I hate Egypt,” Thace sighs.

-

It’s a spellbinding concert, Ulaz swaying as the aria carries his voice inhumanly high and then back until the spell is shattered. Gunfire rattles over their heads--too late, Shiro shelters Ulaz under his body as the audience screams and scatters but Ulaz is already bleeding too much and lying too still--but for once Slav has shut up. Small mercies.

"Hey," Shiro says, one hand bearing down on Ulaz's wound with his tuxedo jacket and the other patting at his cheek, trying to rouse him, "eyes on me."

Effortfully, Ulaz blinks up at him. 

"My name is Shirogane," he says, "I was sent to meet you, to help Keith--"

_"Keith,"_ Ulaz sighs, mouth softening fondly. "He needs you, you know. He's stronger than you think, and more vulnerable."

"Ulaz--" Shiro says. They're running out of time, Ulaz more than anyone else.

"Protect him," Ulaz says, insistent, and then his eyes drift closed.

"Hey--" Shiro says, and again, shaking him. "Ulaz, you were sent here to give Keith the stones--where are the stones?"

One hand drifts up, and falls. "Inside me," Ulaz says. This time, there's an unmistakable stillness when Ulaz quiets, body cooling infinitesimally.

"Inside--?" Shiro murmurs, settling back on his haunches. Slowly, he draws the tuxedo jacket away from the gaping chasm the bullets left in Ulaz's belly. His shirt is stained past the elbow with Ulaz's thin violet blood.

"Sh--" Slav says, gibbering coming into focus as its volume rises, "Shiro? Shiro, my man, the Galra are--”

“I just need,” Shiro says, “a moment.”

-

“Keith,” Shiro says, once the four Element Stones activated and glowing, gathering Keith into his arms once more. “Hey, wake up, we need you to do your job--”

Keith is too close to slack, breath shallow and pain-sharp.

“--And after this, I’ll take you on a vacation, a real vacation,” Shiro promises desperately.

“What is the use?” Keith whispers, eyes welling. There might be others in this temple, in this room with them, but they are alone together in this. “Humans fight, humans hurt--what is the use when everything comes back to war?”

Taking a deep breath, Shiro cradles Keith ever so achingly closer, like he can take ease some of his burdens from his shoulders. “That--that’s true,” Shiro says. Overhead, the light recedes. The dark planet is blocking out the sun; time is running out. “But Keith--there are beautiful things. There’s kindness, there’s victory, there’s--love.”

“Have to protect,” Keith says, eyes shuttering once more as he shakes, “all life. To wait, to protect. Always. But I don’t know love. I was built to protect, not to love, so there's no other use for me.”

Shiro’s heart clenches palpably. “Keith,” he says, “that’s not true.”

But it could be, and as far as Keith knows, must be. But Keith’s eyes crack once more when Shiro speaks, less resigned. “Tell me,” he whispers. _”Please.”_

“Keith,” Shiro says, swallows as that will drive back the fear. “Please. I love you.”

Keith sobs, tears rolling finally down his cheeks, and then they’re kissing. For a moment the world turns quietly, just for them. Their mouths move together, salted but warm. The Keith’s stiffening, head tilting back as a near-blinding light pours forth from his mouth. All Shiro can do is hold him.

Finally, finally it’s done. Shiro goes to his knees, Keith limp once more in his arms. They’re both unconscious by the time by an extraction team clatters into the temple.

-

“Madame President,” Sam Holt says, startling to his feet as Allura and her entourage enter the room.

“Dr. Holt,” Allura says, inclining her head. “Now, where are my heroes?”

“They were feeling a bit tired so we put them in the Reconstitution Chamber to well, reconstitute--” Sam says.

“Madame President, you’re on air in ninety seconds,” Presidential Aide Romelle says.

“You have ten seconds,” Allura says.

There’s not much Sam can say to this so he steps up to the chamber and slides back the shutter over the viewing aperture. Immediately, he shuts it again.

“They’re--” Sam says, and turns, trying to discreetly place himself between the Reconstitution Chamber and any cameras attached to the President that might go live. “They’re going to need some time. At least five minutes.”

“Time--?” Allura begins, but already Romelle is speaking softly into her ear of some new occurrence within the Terran-Altean Federation.

Within the shielding of the chamber, Shiro and Keith move together. The world turns quietly on outside.

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'o fortuna', popularized in carmina burana. the fuller part of the stanza translates to "O Fortune,/like the moon/you are changeable,/ever waxing/ever waning"
> 
> not sure i've hit the mark on humor for this one, since i haven't been feeling very funny lately. hope it was a pleasant read though. the full cast (not all shown) are  
keith is leeloo  
shiro is corben  
kolivan is vito cornelius  
thace is david  
sendak is zorg  
zarkon as mr shadow/the great evil  
slav as ruby rhod  
ulaz as diva plavalaguna
> 
> i can be found on twitter @belovedbacon


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